Birthdays, Soup Pots, Wisdom
by pol
Summary: A mid-Belgariad glance at Pol and Durnik...


Birthdays, Soup Pots and Nuggets of Durnik-like Wisdom

A/N: Departs from canon. Sometime around MG/CoW. Some slight character liberties, perhaps, but I wanted to explore. Plus, I don't like the lack of attention Pol/Durnik got… 

Sitting on the bed like that, knees hugged up to her chest, pillow strangled between her arms, long hair spilling over her shoulders and framing the stony seriousness of her face, she looked young. So young, so vulnerable. That was unless you happened to catch a glimpse of the hardened fury in her vibrant blue eyes, cold and harsh right now. Those eyes had been the instruments of fear in countless lives. But at the moment they were solely occupied by the unsuccessful combatance of an inevitable well of tears.

 After all this time she still had tears to shed. That thought only made her all the more angry. 

 She knew, of course, that Durnik was outside her door. He didn't loiter so much as hesitate, but the moment of weakness was left unappreciated by her all the same. She was in the mood to be selfish. 

 He knocked, finally, and she willed the door open, unthinking. The act of 'sorcery' disturbed him, but he cautiously stepped forward, only to stop dead in his tracks at the unprecedented sight before him. 

 He would not for the world have admitted that his heart caught just then, but had she been paying attention it was painfully plain to see. 

 "I'm sorry, Mistress Pol. I've come at a bad time, I see," he apologized, although he was unable to make himself move away from the sight. 

 She didn't look at him. She wasn't even sure she was capable. Her eyes had focused on a spot on the wall and there they remained. 

 Her chin set hard and her head held defiantly high almost belied the emotional turmoil, so long bottled up, so suddenly striking her. Almost, but not quite. 

 To Durnik she still looked very young and for perhaps the first time since they had met, her guard was beginning to fail her. 

 "Only I didn't want to call attention to it in front of the others, but I have something for you."

 Still no response. He couldn't even be sure she'd heard him. His Sendarian sense of propriety began to tug at him and he started to sense that it would be better to leave the small gift on the table by the door and let her alone. 

 He forced himself to back up and slid the object onto the polished surface of the table. 

 "Em, Mistress Pol? Happy birthday," he blurted unevenly, suddenly feeling like a fool as a rush of blood pumped to his head. His cheeks and ears felt alarmingly hot with the blush. 

 Until then she had heard Durnik from a distance, as if through a long, echoing tunnel. But those words, those irrefutable, bittersweet words, 'happy birthday', jolted her back into the room in which she sat, her senses alive once more. The air was hot, thick and spicy, the pillow in her arms sweaty and her lips tasted salty with the delicate touch of tears. A dark spot, a tiny imperfection on the whitewash wall, swam before her eyes as she snapped her head around, heavy and aching with the fog of emotion, toward the man in front of her. 

 He was most obviously poised for flight.

 "Durnik…" She swallowed and allowed a moment for the hoarse tension of her throat to relax. She found control and with it the beginnings of the composure she'd been so desperately grasping for earlier. 

 She breathed in deeply and sat up a little straighter.

 "Durnik, how could you possibly have known it was our birthday?" She asked in genuine surprise, not even hearing the accidental plural. 

 Durnik, somewhat bewildered by the sudden switch back to reality, froze like a startled rabbit caught on the roads.

 "Faldor asked you when it was one night at supper. He insisted that on that one night you take leave from the kitchens. You never did though," Durnik recollected. He was a little embarrassed at the admission of holding such memories dear but she only smiled gently. 

 "You are far too thoughtful, Durnik. Nobody but you would concern themselves to remember such a trifling thing," she replied softly. The far-away coldness of her eyes had completely disappeared now, much to Durnik's relief. Even after all this time, she still scared him from time to time. 

 "No birthday should be considered a trifle, Mistress Pol," he answered. "It is a momentous day; it signals a blessing from the gods."

 "Yes. All seven," she shot back sarcastically and far too quickly. 

 "I don't think it would be fair to worship one above the others when together they have made the world we live in," Durnik protested. 

 Pol nodded. She hadn't meant to insult his intelligence. 

 "Sendars are probably the wisest, fairest and most honest people I have ever met, and you are a model Sendar, Durnik. I don't, however, think it's entirely appropriate to thank Torak for deciding to bless the world with me. That might be a bit much, don't you think?"

 Durnik paused to consider that.

 "Probably," he consented, after a moment.

 "I don't think Torak would be too impressed either," she continued.

 "Most likely not." He was smiling now.

 "That's the problem with most things, Durnik. Very nice in theory, but somewhat less palatable in the real world."

 "What is it that makes your birthday less palatable, Mistress Pol?" Durnik asked, not even sure he'd said the words out loud until the slight widening of her eyes warned him. The blood rushed to his face once again and pummelled a beat inside his cheeks.

 "I didn't mean to pry…" He began, but a calm hand signalled him to stop. 

 "Close the door please, Durnik," she said coolly. 

 He understood. She was angry with him, and quite rightly, for overstepping the boundaries. It was better that he go. 

 "Of course, Mistress Pol." 

 He retreated for the door and began to pull it behind him when a sharp "Durnik!" halted him. 

 He turned back.

 She had pushed aside her hugging pillow and swung her hair back from her face. She looked a strange mixture of indignance and amusement. 

 "I wasn't telling you to leave," she explained, her voice barely concealing a grin. 

 "Oh."

 He stepped back into the room and shut the door. There was a chair on the opposite side of the low mahogany table and she gestured for him to take it. 

 He sank into the cushions, unsure of what was happening. He'd never really been privy to a personal conversation with her before. He was glad she hadn't noticed the present resting near his elbow. That would have been even more awkward. 

 "I take you for granted, Durnik…" she began, but was quickly interrupted by a "no, Mistress Pol!"

 "Let me finish, Durnik," she chided gently. 

 "I do take you for granted and I forget how astute you are.  You're not just the same as other blacksmiths. I should have expected you'd be too smart to miss the point of what I said before."

 "I should never have presumed…"

 "You ought to stop doubting yourself, Durnik. You have every right to ask a question of me, especially where my behaviour impacts on those around me." She paused then added evenly, "I tend not to be the easiest person to live with."

 "I cannot believe that," Durnik argued quickly. 

 "You're more allowing than most, Durnik. Everybody needs reining in from time to time and I don't consider myself an exception to that." 

 The words "you're an exception to all things ordinary" went unsaid, except in the back of Durnik's head where they were safely locked away so that neither of them would have to face them. 

 The moment of silence, however, spoke its inevitable volumes and the sharpest of deep blue eyes softened slightly as she watched her guest. 

 "You asked a pertinent question, Durnik, and it's only fair you get an answer. If you are willing to lend me a moment of your time?"

 "Of course, Mistress Pol." The reply seemed redundant. He had never so wanted to flee and yet be held back from fleeing. It was a strange and alarming sensation. 

Polgara let herself smile slightly, although the thought of the upcoming conversation had sobered her once more and the pillow had somehow crept back into her arms. 

 "Durnik, you know who I am, don't you?" She began. It was as good a beginning as any other.

 "You're a cook, Mistress Pol," he answered promptly.

 "And?"

 "I've heard you called some other names too," he admitted reluctantly. This idea that Mistress Pol was quite another person from who he'd thought she was still very much distressed him. 

 "Durnik," Polgara said, very softly, "I'm still Pol the cook. I'm not a different person just because I've been to other places and done other things. Before you were a smith what did you do?"

"I was a stable hand for a while. I liked to be around the horses so the others parts of the work didn't seem so bad."

 "Wouldn't you say that essentially, Durnik the stable hand is the same person as Durnik the smith?"

 "I suppose so."

 "The other names you've heard me called, Polgara the Sorceress, Lady Polgara the Duchess of Erat, these are superficial differences just like 'stable hand' and 'smith'."

 Durnik took a moment to swallow that. In all actuality Durnik thought the "just like" was anything but, but the logic of Mistress Pol's words gave him some comfort at least. 

 "You know the stories of Polgara and Belgarath. You've heard them since you were a boy."

 "Yes." The comfort had been short-lived after all.

 "Then you already know about my sister."

 "Then it's true?"

 "Beldaran died and I didn't. The thing is, Durnik, after a while you'd think you'd get used to death. I've seen a lot of death in my time, most often of those I love most, and I can promise you it doesn't get any easier. You just get better at moving along and becoming just a little bit more numb to the pain."

 Polgara's eyes, although looking right at him, had drifted far away again, her face closed over like a mask. Her voice was detached and carefully regulated. She was not about to lose her control over herself again. 

 "I had never known death before Beldaran died. She was the first in what has become a very long line. Of course, that's the way it has to be, but I didn't see that then."

 Durnik, completely and utterly stunned by the depth of the confession he was hearing, had no possible response to Polgara's moment of sharing. He was pretty sure she had never before let herself be vulnerable like this and he was terrified at the incipient power he was being given.  

 But after a few moments of silence she was back to herself again, snapping out of her detached state as easily as she'd snapped into it. Her eyes focused entirely on Durnik's and registered his shock and pity.

 "Don't worry at it, Durnik. I didn't mean to burden you with all that."

 "I am honoured," he replied shyly. 

 "_I_ am honoured," she replied firmly. "It is rare for someone to make a birthday of ours pleasurable."

 "Don't you think perhaps you would honour your sister's memory by celebrating your birthday rather than mourning it? After all, this is the day she was brought into your life, not the day she was taken away."         

 Durnik was confounded by this sudden streak of boldness but the earnestness of the thought had demanded it be spoken.

 "A wise suggestion. If only more people were as practical as you, Durnik," Mistress Pol replied. 

 "I don't pretend to be wise, Mistress Pol," Durnik insisted.

 "No. I know. You don't pretend at all."

 There was another silence then, but these silences, far from awkward, had begun to imply a certain level of intimacy between them. In point of fact, Durnik was beginning to find them comforting. 

 A sudden smile leapt to Polgara's face. 

 "Now, all that aside, I believe you brought me something, Durnik," she suggested, eyes twinkling girlishly. 

 Polgara's mood swing was infectious and Durnik couldn't help but smile in response. 

 "Just a small trinket, Mistress Pol. I'm afraid I had no idea what to give you." 

 He stood up to offer her the finely carved little box. On its lid was whittled the delicate lines of an owl in great detail and once opened it contained three small compartments designed to hold pressed herbs during travel. 

 Pol's eyes narrowed, then widened, then softened as she turned the box over in her hands, examining its facets and tracing the bird with a steady finger. 

 Durnik realized he had been holding his breath. As he began to let it out, nice and slowly, Polgara concluded her study to fix him with an astonished smile. 

 "It's beautiful, Durnik! And useful, with everybody forever falling ill around me left, right and centre. Thank you." 

 And without knowing how it had happened, Durnik found himself being firmly hugged. Her arms engulfed him even as the dizziness of his reeling senses engulfed him. She was too close, just too close…

His skin tingled and his breathing caught. Hesitantly he put his arms around her too. He was afraid to let go then but made himself for propriety's sake. She'd felt much smaller somehow than he would have thought. 

 "You dear, dear man," she murmured, stepping back to look at him full in the face.

 "I'll, em…leave you, then," he managed, gesturing pointlessly at empty air. "I hadn't meant to interrupt your private time."

 "Durnik." Her eyes still held him, much as he wished to escape now. She saw right through him, he'd always known that, but this was somehow much worse. It was probably the effect of standing within two feet of her. 

 "Yes?"

 "I seem to have developed a reputation somewhere along the way for being somewhat…scary. You're not actually scared of me, are you, Durnik?"

 Her mouth twitched in anticipation of his reply. 

 "Of course not," he began, but the raised eyebrow forced him to do better.

 "Well, yes," he told her, that troublesome boldness asserting itself again.

 He was more than a little surprised when Pol began to laugh.

 "A bit of healthy fear never hurt anybody," he continued, slightly affronted by her reaction.

 "Indeed." She was still laughing and any more would have been too difficult to say.

 "Then why…?" He stopped. He didn't want to affect her mood again now that she'd found her way out of her personal darkness.0

 She strove to collect herself.

 "I just got this image of you running away and plates and dishes being hurled in your wake."

 "I beg your pardon?"

 "An unfortunate trademark of mine. I've never once broken anything on account of you before, though, so it must be a good sign."

 "You have. That soup pot which I'd thought was mended. But the new metal didn't stand the heat."

 "That was hardly your fault," she protested.

 "It was. I should have taken greater care. I don't think I've ever made such a mess of anything as I did with patching that soup pot."

 "Durnik! You were trying to keep Garion from crawling into the forge. Not everything can be perfect all the time. Anyway, it was Silla's fault for overheating the pot. I knew she wasn't ready to do anything but chop vegetables."

 "Silla was engaged to be married to my cousin, Tranok," Durnik told her.

 Polgara looked slightly taken aback.

 "I'd presumed you didn't have any immediate relatives."

 "I don't. Just Tranok and his parents. We were never close. Silla was forever hovering about the smithy asking for childhood stories of Tranok."

 "Oh?" 

 "I didn't have the heart to tell her I hadn't met Tranok until he was already full grown."

 Polgara smiled.

 "I always knew she was a flaky girl, but I didn't realize she'd been troubling you."

 "It was no real bother. She didn't much like the kitchens and fished for excuses whenever she could to be elsewhere."

 "That I had noticed. But she was determined not to be replaced."

 "It was the ticket she had to marrying my cousin. My uncle and aunt wanted to be sure she was a reliable, capable sort of girl, who could keep herself and her family."

 "Then they got the wrong girl," Polgara pointed out.

 Durnik nodded. 

 "It's odd to look back now on all that. It feels a hundred years ago and yesterday all at the same time," he observed.

 "That's the way it is with moving on. The past seems so close because we're constantly building on it, but it's also been left behind to a certain extent."

 "Unless you regret. Then you hold on to things much too firmly," Durnik added.

 Polgara looked at him very closely.

 "Am I being taught a lesson here, Durnik?" She asked straight out.

 Durnik's eyes widened.

 "Not at all." The impact of his words struck him. "Not intentionally, at any rate."

 "You're right, of course." She paused. "You don't regret leaving Faldor's farm, do you?"

 "I miss it sometimes. The quiet, the simplicity. But that's different. I have never regretted following you and Mister Wolf. It was the right thing to do."

 "Thank you."

 And somehow it seemed that if the rest of the words that had floated around this space in the last twenty or so minutes had never been uttered at all, everything would have already been said in those two words and the hand that closed protectively around her new herb box.  

 And everything that he could say in return he had already said.

 "Happy birthday, Mistress Pol."

 When he pulled the door closed behind him a flood of images rushed to meet the click of the latch. That first frame of an impossibly young woman, so vulnerable yet untouchable, the distance and pain, the sudden illumination of her face as she burst into spontaneous laughter, the feeling of her unexpected smallness in his arms mingled with a peculiar scent which was only hers, the candid depth of those two words and the gentle incline of her head as she watched him take his leave. 

 She was right. He was afraid of her. But for a very different reason to almost any other in the world. The hold she had over him, the images he stored away with all the unspoken acknowledgements in the little corner of his mind reserved for such things; Durnik knew absolutely that if she were to take these things back from him…

 But she hadn't. 

 And that was more than enough for him. 

 For now.       

Fin. 

What do you think? I know it's all a bit wordy etc. but I figured they never really got a chance to speak in the books and we all know how it ends. I just wanted more of a middle. Constructive criticism is very welcome.        


End file.
